Julie, an immaculately made-up woman, sits down in front of a camera. She has thick, voluminous hair that frames the high cheekbones of her conspicuously crease-free face. Her elegant, arched eyebrows and extra-long eyelashes act as a counterbalance to her plump, painted lips. She looks out of frame, as if admiring herself in a mirror, before giggling and batting her eyelids.
“Oh dear,” she purrs, tilting her head from side to side. “Another long day in a wig and a girdle.”
She reaches up and emits a light moan as she unclips her gold earrings and gently sets them aside, one by one. She considers her image a few moments longer, then places her hands just below her ears and begins to pull her blemish-free skin off and away from her jawline. It’s only now that we realize it’s not human skin, but rather a mask made of soft, flesh-like silicone rubber.
Julie is one of the most visible faces of female masking, a specific subset of cross-dressing men who wear masks, and occasionally skin-tone bodysuits, to make them look more like biological women. The videos that she uploads to YouTube have received hundreds of thousands of views, attracting both fans and detractors.
Julie is but one of scores of maskers around the globe; the most popular masking website, Dolls Pride, has almost 10,000 active members. But, until now, the subculture has remained relatively unknown outside the tight-knit community. Even the nation’s foremost experts on sexuality haven’t heard of masking (though it’s worth noting that the practice isn’t always sexually motivated).
“I just checked with Dr. Kaplan and neither one of us have heard this term before,” said Dr. Richard Krueger, who, with Dr. Meg Kaplan, heads up the Sexual Behavior Clinic at the New York State Psychiatric Institute.
This doesn’t surprise Kerry. At 52, he has been masking for 37 years and is considered by many to be the unofficial matriarch of the scene. He says that while there are magazines featuring maskers that date as far back as the 1930s, the practice has existed largely on the fringe of society.
“I've got a fetish book from the 1940s and '50s of people doing female masking back then, so by no means did we invent anything,” he said. “Our grandparents were doing this.”
He explains that masking first entered his consciousness when he saw an episode of Mission: Impossible in 1970—there were 10 episodes between 1969 and 1973 that saw actresses Lynda Day George, Lesley Ann Warren, and Barbara Bain wearing masks to impersonate other characters. Intrigued by the idea of transformation, Kerry would sit and look at his third-grade teacher in amazement, wondering what it would be like if her face were a mask.
“She was blonde and she had low-cut dresses for the 1970s, and I'd sort of think if she was wearing a mask it would have to extend all the way down her neck,” he said. “And I remember having that thought, if her head was a mask she'd have to have it going all the way down into her dress.”
Seven years later at 15, he began experimenting himself. He scoured local costume shops and found two relatively simple masks that he customized to fit his needs. He says he was insecure growing up and that wearing a mask offered him the chance to recreate himself and become someone who didn’t care what others thought.
“It'd be one thing to disguise myself as a guy, but I'd still be a guy,” he said. “But if I could disguise myself as a woman that would be a total transformation.”
It soon became sexual and he would retreat to his room, put on a mask and masturbate. He says it wasn’t the idea of womanhood that aroused him; it was the masks themselves. “I mostly did think about masks when I was masturbating,” he said. “I never masturbated over naked girls in Playboy or anything like that.”
Still, for Kerry, the guilt that can surround teenage sexuality was compounded by the sense that his preference was extremely unusual. “I thought that I've got to be the only person on the planet that has these feelings and these interests,” he said. It wasn’t until the birth of the Internet two decades later that he discovered there was a thriving community of men who also enjoyed wearing female masks—which offered him both solace and an exciting business opportunity.
There hadn’t been many developments in the masking world in the intervening 20 years. The two masks Kerry wore during this period were a heavily customized Bride of Frankenstein creation and a blonde woman forever smoking a cigarette. So, disappointed by the dearth of available options, he set about making his own.
It wasn’t long before he started selling them to other maskers. His side business became so successful that he quit his day job as a printer and turned a room of his Seattle home into a masking workshop, much to the chagrin of his wife of 12 years.
“She thinks it's weird,” he explained, adding that she steers clear of the workroom and its row upon row of female faces. “She doesn't have anything to do with it. Once in a while she might help me with something but it's not really her thing.”